


Another fine mess

by Hypatia_66



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Challenge Response, Comfort Food, Community: section7mfu, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Vodka
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 08:16:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15882138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: LJ short Affair challenge. Prompts: admire, surface, purpleNapoleon and Illya compete on not showing they care about each other.





	Another fine mess

“Will you help Mr Solo pack a few necessities?”

“Yes, sir,” said Illya, straight-faced, and with a graceful wave of the hand indicated for Napoleon to precede him out of Mr Waverly’s office.

<><><> 

“You’ll enjoy the Bahamas,” he said as they walked back to their own office. Napoleon preserved a grim silence, not that it deterred Illya who had just been given a senior role at his partner’s expense and was all set to enjoy it. “Just think,” said that Job’s comforter, “there’ll be no excitement, just sun, sea, sand, and beautiful girls. It’s the perfect way to recover your … “

“My what?” said Napoleon dangerously.

“Your… elegance of mind and body… and restore your, um, energy?”

“What makes you think any of those things needs recovery or restoration?”

“Well, Mr Waverly seems to think so.”

How _did_ his little Russian _sidekick_ manage to keep his face so expressionless and yet laugh with his eyes? You had to admire it but nevertheless Napoleon glared at him and received in return a wide-eyed hurt look.

“Well, if I come back to find you bandaged to the eyebrows and in traction down in the infirmary, don’t expect flowers and chocolates. That’s all I can say.”

“That’s all right, Napoleon. Even if you do, I don’t eat chocolate, and flowers are better left growing, don’t you think?”

<><><> 

During the week he was away, in a dudgeon, Napoleon made no contact with his partner in any way, not even to check if he was all right. He found himself worrying about him, nevertheless, and had to exert considerable self-denial not to pick up his communicator. But it continued to nag at him.

A spectacular sunset splashed its colours over the surface of the sea; the girl snuggled up beside him cooed at it, expecting some kind of romantic response, but Napoleon suddenly sat up and leapt off the lounger.

“Where are you going?” cried the girl after his retreating figure.

“Back in a minute,” he called over his shoulder.

Where the hell had he put the damned thing? Napoleon flung his belongings about, hunting for it. At last! “Open Channel D… come in Illya… where are you?”

There was no answer. He called the UNCLE switchboard. “Where’s Illya?”

“Oh, it’s you Napoleon! Did somebody tell you? He told us not to bother you.”

“What’s happened to him?”

“He’s in the infirmary. He’ll be all right when the bandages come off and his leg’s out of traction.”

“Tell him I’ll be right there as soon as I can get a flight. No, on second thoughts, don’t tell him, but I’ll be on the next flight anyway.”

Sandra on the switchboard was disappointed. He usually made a date with one of them when he was about to return from vacation, or for that matter, from a mission. But then, they all knew that like all Section Two agents he only really cared about his partner.

The unfortunate and blameless girl sharing the lounger was about to find that out, too.

<><><> 

Anxious as he was, Napoleon wasn’t going to give his partner the satisfaction of knowing it. He was his immaculate self as he strolled into the infirmary and flirted with the nurse on duty. But like the switchboard staff, they knew why he was back early.

“Napoleon, don’t try to kid me that you came back specially to take me out to dinner. He’s in room 11.”

“Spurned again!” Napoleon clutched his heart theatrically, turned on his heel and walked down the corridor to find his partner.

A small heavily bandaged figure lay in the bed, with one leg in traction. Pretty much all that was visible was the blond hair and some very colourful bruises – purple beginning to fade to green. His eyes were closed.

Napoleon sat down and one blue eye opened and brightened before Illya could stop himself. “Did it rain?” he enquired.

“Rain? No. Wrong season for rain. Why?”

“Shouldn’t you still be sunning yourself in decadent luxury?”

“I thought it was time to see what kind of a mess you’d made of the mission.”

“I didn’t.”

“You didn’t? What’s all this then?”

“They ran me over when they tried to escape. They didn’t get far – I blew up the car.”

“You blew it up?”

“I prepared a surprise for them and they were caught out. I always thought their training was poor.”

“How come you didn’t jump onto the hood when they aimed at you? You _trained_ for that, didn’t you?”

“I would have if I hadn’t been thrown in front of it. As it was, I didn’t have time.”

Illya was smiling now – he wasn’t deceived either. Napoleon’s attempt at dismissive interrogation was breaking down into horror. “I see you didn’t bring flowers and chocolates,” he remarked.

“No, I brought this instead,” said Napoleon. He lifted his briefcase onto the bed and opened it. Illya craned his neck to see then lay back and sighed beatifically. “One small bottle of vodka – the best, of course,“ said Napoleon, “and a box of something I prepared specially. Shall I feed you?”

“No, Napoleon, I can manage blini and caviar without assistance – careful with that cream! –  but you might pour the vodka into that glass so it looks like water.”

“How long before your leg’s healed?”

“Couple of weeks.”

Napoleon snorted. More like six, and then physio and exercises. “You’ll need a vacation when you’re up and about,” he said. “I can recommend the Bahamas – you could swim to exercise your leg, and for other exercise there’s a very nice girl there…”

“I don’t want your cast-offs, Napoleon, thanks all the same. Is there any more caviar there?”

<><><><><>


End file.
